


A King's Legacy

by Mossflower_17



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Dwarf/Elf Relationship(s), F/M, POV Thorin, Romance, Slight Alternate Universe I Guess, Slow Burn, The Hobbit - Freeform, Thorin Needs A Home, Thorin Oakenshield/OFC - Freeform, Thorin-centric, Tolkien, will add more tags when i think of them
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:21:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26816545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mossflower_17/pseuds/Mossflower_17
Summary: It's been many years since the fall of Erebor; but still not enough to quench the fires of vengeance. That was what Thorin Oakenshield thought, when he set out on his quest to reclaim his ancestral home. But things don't quite go to plan for thirteen dwarves, one hobbit, and a grey wizard when they pick up an unexpected hitchhiker, who just so happens to have a remarkable effect on the dwarf king...Or, another MASSIVELY LONG fic is in the works guys!! Hopefully, at least. All the fun of a slow burn romance with some orcs, elves, goblins and wargs thrown in. Another OFC, another romance... you'd think I'd know better, after the last one left me emotionally scarred for life. I will be posting chapters as and when I complete them; I'm making it up as I go along, so no fixed schedule I'm afraid. I will be largely sticking to the movie-canon version of the story with my own twists thrown in. Enjoy!
Relationships: Thorin Oakenshield/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 51





	1. A King and a Son of Kings

Thorin is a king and a son of kings.

He knows this in his heart the same way that a hawk knows how to fly, the way a wolf knows how to howl. The knowledge was a part of him, buried deep in the core of his very being, the same way that the Arkenstone had been buried at the heart of the Lonely Mountain.

But he is a king without a crown. Without a kingdom. With barely anything to call his own, save for the clothes on his back and the sword at his hip. For too long had his people been banished from their ancestral homes. Erebor, Khazad-Dûm… each were dark, empty, and had become the abode of monsters. Erebor had been lost to Smaug the Golden, Chiefest and Greatest of Calamities; and Khazad-Dûm had long been lost to… something. An ancient and nameless terror.

But that had been before his time. Thorin ached for the loss of Durin’s ancient realm; but not in the same way that his heart ached for Erebor. The kingdom built into the very roots of the Lonely Mountain, honeycombed with halls and passageways, carved into glimmering gold-veined stone. His home. A place of peace, and plenty, for a time. Until the day the dragon came.

Wincing, Thorin tore himself away from the memory. Fire and blood and the recollection of terror assailed him for a moment, before he was able to wrench his senses back to the present. He sighed and ran a frustrated hand through his hair. Threads of glimmering silver had begun to appear in his raven mane over recent years: a testimony to how hard he’d been working to maintain the dwarven settlements in the Blue Mountains. They were a triumph, he knew. A true test of dwarven ingenuity and resilience. His people had arrived at the foot of the mountains after spending years as little more than beggars, moving from town to town, bartering skills and services for blankets and food. They’d had nothing to work with but the tools they carried and bare, unforgiving rock. But they had done it. The settlements were secure, the mines had gone deep and found veins of silver, as well as iron, amber, sapphires, and precious rubies. Trade contracts with the cities of Men had been established. The streets were safe, and nobody was starving. It was a vast improvement; a time of peace, if not exactly prosperity, for Durin’s folk. But for Thorin, it still wasn’t enough. His heart ached for something more.

Which is why he was here, waiting impatiently at the foot of a grassy knoll in the middle of this strange settlement that Gandalf had called the Shire. A peculiar place, to be sure. He and his small company of dwarves had arrived well before dusk and settled down to wait for the wizard in the shade of an old oak tree. There, he’d had ample opportunity to observe the Shire folk.

A strange people, these hobbits. Even more diminutive in stature than the dwarves themselves, Thorin found it remarkable that one of these curly-haired, soft-looking creatures could be the person that Gandalf had personally picked as the fourteenth member of their Company. He wondered idly whether the grey wizard was in fact playing some sort of elaborate practical joke on them all. He wouldn’t put it past Gandalf to get up to all kind of small mischiefs. He seemed the type, somehow.

It wasn’t long before Ori, who was on lookout, spotted an unmistakable pointy-hatted figure striding up the path to meet them. About time, Thorin thought irately. His companions had seemed grateful for the short rest, but he had never liked waiting.

‘You’re late,’ he snapped, as the wizard approached. ‘We’ve been here the past hour, at least.’

Gandalf lowered his bushy brows to glare down at Thorin. ‘A wizard is never late,’ he replied. ‘You are all simply early. I told you that I would meet you at dusk, did I not?’ He glanced pointedly towards the setting sun. Evening was painting the gentle rolling hills of the Shire with soft shades of grey and lilac, lit from beneath by the sun’s ruddy golden glow. It would have been a beautiful sight, had he been in any mood to admire it.

‘Well, it doesn’t matter. We’re all here now.’ Gandalf looked around approvingly. ‘Save for our fourteenth member, who I will shortly introduce you to.’

‘Who is it?’ asked Kili, piping up with puppy-dog eagerness. ‘Is he one of these funny-looking hobbits?’

Gandalf raised his eyebrows at that, and his slight cough seemed to hide a chuckle. ‘Indeed yes, Master Kili, although I would advise you not to call them ‘funny-looking’ within earshot. We are shortly to arrive at the home of one Bilbo Baggins, of Bag End. His name, and family, have high standing among the Hobbiton community.’

‘I see.’ Thorin nodded. ‘This fellow is well-respected, then? He has some skills that will be worthy of our quest?’

Gandalf coughed again. ‘Well now, my dear Thorin, that is something I shall leave you to judge for yourself. Now, to business. Hobbits are remarkable creatures. Very social, fond of large gatherings and parties, and very fond of food. But while Bilbo Baggins certainly likes visitors, he has never met dwarves before. Indeed, hardly any of these hobbits have.’

‘Well, that explains some of the looks we were getting on our way in,’ grumbled Dori. ‘You’d have thought we had two heads apiece, the way they were staring.’

‘Aye, some of their jaws nigh hit the floor,’ chuckled Bofur. ‘Eyes so wide I thought they’d fall out of their heads!’

Gandalf nodded. ‘The Shirefolk keep to themselves, and seldom venture into the wide world. For many, this place of peace and plenty is all they know.’

‘Lucky for them,’ muttered Dwalin, eyeing the wizard askance. ‘Are you so sure one of these soft creatures wants to join us, if they’re so afeared of the lands beyond these pastures?’

‘That is what we are about to find out.’ Gandalf nodded decisively. ‘Now, hobbits are a sociable people, and I have no doubt that Master Baggins will be very accommodating in terms of food, wine, and fine ale.’ This met with mumbles of approval all round. ‘However, I do feel that if we were all to appear on his doorstep at once, he may become a little… overwhelmed.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Thorin, frowning. ‘I thought you said you had arranged a meeting.’

‘And I have done so,’ replied Gandalf. ‘However, he does not expect all thirteen of you to be present. So, I propose that we arrive at his doorstep in ones and twos perhaps, so as not to overwhelm the poor chap altogether.’

‘Very well.’ Thorin rolled his eyes. ‘Have it your way. What must we do?’

*

It was late. The sun had long since set, and Thorin was growing increasingly irritable. He was, not to put too fine a point on it, hopelessly lost. First Dwalin, then Balin, had left following Gandalf’s directions to the hobbit’s home. Then Fili and Kili together, although how good of an idea that had been, sending the pair of troublemakers together, Thorin still wasn’t certain. Then Ori, Nori and Dori, followed by Oin and Gloin, then Bifur, Bofur, and Bombour. Gandalf had offered to go last, but Thorin was having none of it.

‘I am the leader of this Company,’ he had told the wizard sternly. ‘I will act as the rear-guard, in case of any untoward happenings.’

Gandalf had sighed impatiently. ‘There really is no need for that,’ he said. ‘But if you insist. You recall the directions I gave you?’

‘Of course.’

‘Then I shall see you in Bag End shortly.’

That had been a little while ago. Thorin wasn’t sure how much time had passed. More than he’d intended, that much was certain. This strange place had no sensible, straight stone roads; only picturesque, winding paths, flanked on all sides by tall hedgerows and wildflowers. Pretty as they were, they were also terribly criss-crossing and confusing. Thorin eyed a nearby buddleia bush with some suspicion, certain that he had already passed the large, violet-flowered shrub three times already.

‘Durin’s beard,’ he muttered to himself. ‘I must be nearly there by now.’

But it wasn’t until some time later that he found himself standing in front of a perfectly round green door with a gleaming brass handle at the exact centre. Scratched into the otherwise impeccable paintwork was a familiar, glowing rune. From within, he could hear distinctly dwarven sounds of merriment. He had found it: Bag End, the home of one Bilbo Baggins, whoever he might be. He sighed deeply. He was late. But at last, he was here. Gathering the remains of his dignity around him along with his warm, fur-trimmed coat, Thorin raised his fist and knocked.


	2. Burglar Bother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin is left alone with his thoughts after what proved to be quite the unexpected party.

‘Well, that was an unmitigated disaster.’

Thorin leaned against the low wooden fence that ran the perimeter of Bag End’s back garden, puffing irritably on his pipe. The meeting had not gone to plan. He hadn’t intended to arrive so late; and by the looks of it, he’d missed most of what was apparently quite the unexpected party, from the point of view of Mr Baggins. That at least he didn’t mind too much, considering just how rowdy he knew his small company could become; especially in the presence of good food and plentiful ale.

But then… the key. His grandfather’s key. The one that Gandalf had seen fit to keep secret from him for… how long, he wondered? And more to the point, what had happened to his father, to be so desperate, so fearful for his own life, that he would place the legacy of his people in the hands of the wizard? Thorin frowned, a dull and familiar ache settling in his chest. His father… the future king he’d once respected, admired, loved… what fate had befallen him? There was more to this tale than what the wizard was telling; of that, Thorin was certain.

He sighed. News of his father was yet another concern on top of an already mounting heap of worries. Before a chance meeting with Gandalf some months ago, he’d ventured from the Blue Mountains in one last-ditched search attempt, tracking whispered rumours of his father. In truth, ever since Thráin went missing, he’d feared he was dead. But when the rumour reached the mountains… if there was even a chance that he was still alive, and could be saved… then what choice did Thorin have? What son would knowingly abandon his father?

His search had ended in failure. He had not found Thráin. However, Gandalf had found him. In a small, dark room at an inn in Bree, he and the wizard had talked long into the night: and so, the idea of reclaiming Erebor had arisen. A journey to recover both the Lonely Mountain, and Thorin’s lost throne; not to mention the enormous wealth of his people that had been stolen by Smaug. It had been an alluring idea. Something about the wizard’s plan had fanned the dying embers of the fire inside him. It had reinvigorated his desire for revenge, for justice, for a true home: for the ancient and beautiful halls of his ancestors.

However, it seems that even from the beginning, their quest was doomed to failure. Their appointed burglar, upon who so much would depend, had turned down the job. After much consideration, and one fairly dramatic fainting fit, Bilbo Baggins had politely informed Gandalf that he would not be joining the Company on their adventure the following morning. Thorin kicked a loose stone irritably. All that effort, he thought. All that time wasted, coming here… for nothing.

‘Chin up, laddie. It could be worse.’ The familiar, comforting presence of Balin arrived beside him, as the old dwarf came to lean on the fence at his side. ‘At least we’ll have warm beds for the night, and we’ve been handsomely fed. That’s far more of a fair welcome than many folks’ve given us over the years.’

Thorin grunted agreement. ‘I’m not ungrateful for the hobbit’s hospitality. You know that, Balin. I’m just…’ he tailed off, shaking his head. ‘If we had gold, I would handsomely compensate him here and now. But we don’t. The most we have between all of us is a scant handful of silver, some raw gems, a purse of copper coin… All I can offer is the _promise_ of gold: one fourteenth share in the wealth of Erebor; and that, he has turned down.’

‘Aye, well I think it was more the promise of being incinerated that motivated that decision.’ Balin lit his own pipe, puffing thoughtfully. ‘I can’t say I blame the fellow, Thorin. Just look at us. Rag-tag, desperate dwarves, on a quest to find a mountain, and slay a dragon. It’d make a legendary tale; but we’re hardly the stuff of legends.’

Thorin scowled. ‘I would take each and any one of these dwarves over an army from the Iron Hills, Balin. You know that. For when I called, they answered. Loyalty, honour, a willing heart… I can ask no more than that.’

‘I know. And I think you’re right. Our plan, for now, has to rely on secrecy to succeed. Only when we have the Arkenstone… only then, can you call our scattered people to arms, and wage a war to win back the mountain. With the Arkenstone in hand, even the old greybeards cannot deny you.’

‘It will be difficult.’ Thorin nodded. ‘Even more so without a proper burglar. None of us are particularly inclined towards stealth; and to sneak back into Erebor, and steal a jewel from under the dragon’s nose…?’

Balin sighed. ‘Aye, but what else can we do? We can’t force the poor chap to come.’

‘I know. Don’t worry, Balin. I still have hopes that it will all come together, in the end.’ Thorin clapped his old friend on the shoulder, trying to lighten his tone. ‘We still have many days before us to discover a solution. Who knows, we may happen upon something on the road that raises our chances.’

‘We may indeed.’ Balin glanced up at his king, a wry smile spreading across his weathered old features. ‘That’s the spirit, laddie. Don’t let the bad luck get you down, eh?’

‘I never have done before. I do not intend to today.’ Thorn shook his head. ‘Go back inside, Balin. Get some rest, we’ve an early start tomorrow morn.’

Balin nodded. ‘What about you?’

‘I need to think. I will follow you shortly.’ 

‘Of course. Take all the time you need.’

Thorin watched the white-bearded dwarf disappear back inside Bag End, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He had put on a hopeful face for his old friend. Balin and Dwalin had been by his side ever since he was a tiny dwarfling: one guiding, the other guarding. They’d grown into his dearest friends, and most trusted companions. But even to Balin, there was something Thorin couldn’t bring himself to admit.

He was losing hope. Even now, at the outset of their quest, before any real perils or setbacks had beset them… Thorin could feel the weight of the world on his shoulders, and it was already becoming too heavy for him to bear. Back in Bree, Gandalf’s talk of uniting the seven dwarf kingdoms and taking back his people’s rightful place in Middle Earth had lit the fires of vengeance in his heart. But now, as reality set in, it was a fire that was slowly going out. What were they but thirteen dwarves, armed with nothing more than a map, a key, and a fool’s hope? The entire might of Erebor’s military had been no match for Smaug. Was he deluded to think that any army, any attempt to win back their home, would end in any other way than before: in fire and slaughter?

He sighed. Perhaps thirteen dwarves might succeed where an army had failed. Perhaps Gandalf was right to believe in them: to believe in him. He straightened his shoulders, raising his head and adjusting the set of his coat. No matter that he’d lost his kingdom: he was still a king to his people. No matter that he didn’t feel like one; no matter that the weight of responsibility for an entire race was crushing his shoulders with an unbearable, unliftable weight. He must keep up appearances to inspire his companions: and to try and keep up his own hope too.

He turned back towards Bag End, retracing his steps across the darkened garden. From the hobbit hole’s peculiar circular windows came a warm, welcoming glow. It was very different to what he remembered from Erebor; far from what he would call homely. Despite that, for one brief moment, homesickness rose up and gripped him by the throat. _I wonder if we might stay here,_ his inner thought whispered. _I wonder if we could simply lay down our arms: our swords, our axes, our bitter grief. In this tranquil land, among rustic folk… could we rest? Could we find peace?_

He shook his head. It was a dream, and nothing more. This small corner of the world might indeed be peaceful; but out in the wide world were still injustices and oppressions, wrongs that must be righted. _And if not now, then when?_ His inner thought murmured. _And if not by us… then who?_

No. The life of peace might be the one he desired: but it was not the one he was destined for. He could feel it, deep in his bones. War was coming. All he could do was brace himself to weather the oncoming storm; and use his skill and his strength to shield those he was honour-bound to protect. There was no other choice. Not for him.

He drew in a deep, steadying breath, gathering himself before pushing open Bag End’s back door and stepping back inside the hobbit hole. He tried not to admire the care with which the family home had obviously been kept: the love that was so, so evident in every line of the wood panelling, every stitch of the hand-sewn coverlets and rich, damasked upholstery. He tried not to glare at Bilbo Baggins, who stood nervously beside the back door, waiting to show him to his room.

‘My thanks, Master Baggins,’ he rumbled, following the diminutive hobbit down the hallway and into another small, circular room. This one boasted an impressive carved four-poster bed; and the mere sight of what was almost certainly a deep, comfortable mattress and a set of feather pillows made Thorin’s bones ache with the memory of half a lifetime spent sleeping rough, on the road.

‘You’re quite welcome,’ replied the hobbit politely, leaning down to light a fat, beeswax candle that gave off a sweet, honeyed scent. ‘This is the best guest bedroom, and I hope you find it, um… satisfactory. The sheets are clean, and there are fresh towels in the linen cupboard…’

‘It is more than satisfactory.’ He tried to temper the gruffness of his voice, remembering the fragile creature’s extraordinary fainting fit earlier. ‘You have done handsomely by us, Master Baggins, and I thank you for your hospitality. I only wish I had some fairer way to show our gratitude other than mere words.’

‘Oh, no, don’t mention it, happy to help,’ replied Bilbo, waving one hand and looking flustered. ‘It’d be a poor show indeed for a Baggins of Bag End not to give help to fellows in need. I simply wish there were something more I could do.’

Thorin did not reply, simply raising one eyebrow to communicate that there was, actually, something the hobbit could do.

‘Other than go and burgle a dragon, I mean,’ added Bilbo, after taking two seconds to work out exactly what Thorin was implying. ‘Really, I wish you all the best. I truly do. But look at me. You already said I looked more like a grocer than a burglar. And you were right. I’m sure… I’m sure I would only let you down.’ He shuffled his feet, and looked away. ‘Anyway, I bid you goodnight.’

Once the hobbit had departed, Thorin sank onto the bed with a low groan. It was getting late. If he leaned back, he could glimpse the bright stars, twinkling peacefully over the Shire’s rolling hills. _Those same stars shine over Erebor,_ he reminded himself. _Over the dragon that has stolen my kingdom, and slaughtered my people. I hope he is sleeping peacefully tonight; for his days are surely numbered. As long as I have breath in my body and blood in my veins, I will fight to reclaim my people’s home. This I swear._


	3. On The Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Quest for Erebor begins.

Dawn came, and they were back on the road. The Company of Thorin Oakenshield set off with the early morning mists that wreathed the Shire valleys in a veil of palest grey. They must have made a peculiar sight, thirteen dwarves and one pointy-hatted wizard traipsing out of Bag End’s green door, had any hobbit been awake early enough to see them.

They were headed towards Bywater, where the Company had stabled their ponies. Remembering the trouble he’d had the previous evening with the Shire’s meandering pathways, Thorin had stepped back, and allowed Gandalf to temporarily take the lead. His companions seemed in a far more sombre mood than they were last night, perhaps due to the loss of their burglar; or perhaps, as Thorin suspected, due to the unhappy combination of three full barrels of ale the previous evening, and a very early start.

By the time they reached the inn, the sun had begun to peep over the top of the Shire’s rolling farmlands, and burn off the morning mists in a haze of drifting gold and birdsong. The hobbits had begun to stir too, as though summoned by the rising sun. Thorin allowed Gandalf to deal with the yawning stable lad who’d taken care of their ponies the previous evening, noting with some satisfaction that all their sturdy little beasts seemed to have been well cared for, and well fed. He patted his own pony on its soft, inquisitive nose before mounting up.

‘Come on,’ he called. ‘We need to reach the northern borders of the Shire before midday.’

He did his best not to glare at the inquisitive hobbits as they rode past, instead keeping his gaze fixed firmly ahead. It wasn’t their fault they lived lives of peace and plenty, having never known war or suffering. He was happy for these gentle folk – happy that there was still one pocket of land in this Middle Earth that was a haven of peace and tranquillity. _Perhaps that’s why Gandalf is so fond of this place,_ he thought to himself. _After all, the wizard must see his fair share of troubles. Knowing that this realm is still here, untouched by the sorrows of other lands… maybe it’s his comfort, knowing places like this still exist. It’s proof that there is still hope._

They rode on into the morning, soaking up the Shire’s late summer sunshine. It wasn’t until nearly midday that Thorin heard a distant yell coming from the rear of the column.

‘Wait! Stop!’

To his astonishment, when he reigned his pony about, it was none other than Bilbo Baggins trotting through the woods towards them, looking thoroughly out of breath and red in the face, but decidedly here; and waving his copy of the Company contract like a war banner. He watched Balin pull out a small eye-glass to inspect the signature, turning away to hide a smile. So, it seemed that after a night’s consideration, their burglar had decided to come along.

Perhaps their quest wasn’t destined to fail after all. Perhaps, thought Thorin, there was indeed still hope: for the Company, for their quest: and for him.

*

They reached the Shire’s north-eastern border a little after midday. It was easy to tell where the land’s boundaries were. The grass quickly went from neatly clipped to long and tussocked, rife with meadow flowers and the busy hum of many insects. Larches and silver birches lined the road, which had become more of a dirt track. Bright clumps of ragwort, dandelions, cowslips and other weeds sprang up along their path, lighting the trail with sunny clusters of yellow.

They skirted the Old Forest on the advice of Gandalf, crossing the Brandywine Bridge and continuing their trek along the north-easterly road. Thorin was personally in favour of the detour, disliking the look of the forest from a distance, and only too happy not to venture beneath its gloomy tangle of branches. Bilbo too seemed oddly relieved at the diversion.

‘The Old Forest has rather a shady reputation, I’m afraid,’ he overheard the hobbit telling Bofur. ‘All sorts of nasty stories come out of there. Winding paths that’ll get you lost in a heartbeat, clearings that can be there one moment and gone the next… there’s a tale that the Bucklanders – that’s the hobbits who live close by, mostly the Brandybucks, my cousins you know, on my mother’s side – they’d had enough of all the creaking and groaning and eerie noises coming from the forest one windy day, so they took up their axes, chopped down a whole bunch of trees, and burnt the lot. Then, the following morning, they woke up to find the forest had come right up to the boundary hedge – that’s border of their lands, sort of a living fence – and all these mossy old trees were looming over them, and creaking in a very threatening manner indeed.’

‘Looming?’ Bofur had wrinkled his nose in confusion. ‘What, you mean that the trees moved?’

‘Exactly.’ Bilbo nodded sagely. ‘They came and planted themselves right up against the hedge. So the tale says, anyway. That made the Bucklanders think twice about cutting any more down. The trees went away after a little while, of course. At least, they aren’t there now. As far as I know, there’s some kind of truce between the Old Forest and those who live on its borders. But mark my words, the hobbits who live close won’t venture inside for any price.’

‘Can’t say as I blame them, if the trees are getting up every night and strolling around the place, planting themselves willy nilly,’ chuckled Bofur. ‘Sounds like a tall story, but I’ve heard more unlikely things that’ve turned out to be true before.’ 

Bilbo shrugged. ‘Well, that’s the tale. Or one of them, at least. Believe it or not as you please; there are a fair few stories told in the Shire about the Old Forest. Mostly cautionary ones, you know: to teach the fauntlings not to go wandering off. Still, there’s no denying that some of the folk who live by the boundary can be a little… odd.’ 

Chuckling to himself, Thorin had shaken his head in disbelief. Walking trees! It seemed these hobbits had no shortage of tall tales to tell around a fire at night. Of course, such nonsense was likely precisely that: something cooked up by the adults to frighten the little ones away from the woods, to keep them from venturing into places where they could get easily lost, or hurt. With a pang, he remembered the stories his mother used to tell them in Erebor, late at night when he, Frerin, or Dís were feeling restless or mischievous: of the Gulper, a fearsome creature with a wide mouth like a giant toad, who lived in the deep mines and ate tiny dwarflings who wandered in and got lost; who would swallow them whole with one enormous _gulp!_

Those had been the days, when the future seemed as bright as the sun on new-fallen snow. With a smile, he remembered the time when he and Dís had planned an expedition to the deep mines, armed with a rucksack full of stolen cookies and their wooden practice swords, to kill the hideous Gulper and save future generations of Erebor’s dwarflings. It had been sheer luck that an engineer working late had spotted the determined pair heading towards a mine shaft, and raised the alarm. Thorin had never been so thoroughly scolded in his life. He remembered placing himself firmly in front of his younger sister, as though to shield her from his grandfather’s wrath; only for her to push forward to stand at his side, her arms folded and jaw set firmly, her dark eyes flashing defiance.

No wonder Fili and Kili turned out so wild and wayward, he thought. Their rambunctiousness was nothing compared to the mischiefs he, Frerin, and Dís had gotten up to when they were young; particularly Dís. His chest clenched tightly with the memory that once, there had been three of them, instead of two. Frerin, the golden dwarf, his younger brother who had doted on their baby sister; always ready with a laugh and a smile no matter the occasion. Even after the fall of Erebor, Frerin had found a way to keep his spirits high. But then had come bloodshed at the gates of Khazad-dûm: the fearful battle of Azanulbizar, where Thorin had won a war but lost almost everything.

Scowling, Thorin wrenched himself back to the present, noting with some surprise that the day was still bright and fair, not dark and filled with death. He swallowed hard, for a moment still able to taste blood at the back of his throat. He would _not_ be drawn back, he told himself fiercely. He would _not_ fall back into that pit of pain and self-loathing and despair that he had fallen into after that fateful battle. It had taken many long years for Thorin to overcome the trauma of that day; and the pain that still spiked in his gut at the memory proved that even now, he had not still fully healed. 

Shaking his head, he glared balefully at the beautiful landscape rolling past under the hooves of his pony. The track they were following was hardly what he’d call a decent road; but the dirt trail was smooth and well-worn, suggesting frequent use. According to Gandalf, they would shortly come upon Bree if they maintained their present road, past the Old Forest and the ancient barrows that lay beyond. After brief discussion – _not_ an argument, Thorin maintained, but a _discussion_ – with Gandalf, they had decided not to enter the town and take rooms at the Prancing Pony, no matter how comfortable the inn might be. Their quest, after all, depended on secrecy; and their small cavalcade of thirteen dwarves, one Shire hobbit, and the wandering wizard, would no doubt draw curiosity and gossip from the Breelanders. Thorin also knew he was a recognisable face, to some; he also knew that as the heir of Durin, he was still hunted by those who would see his line dead. Far more sensible to avoid the small town and make camp in the woodlands close by.


	4. An Unscheduled Encounter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Thorin and Company come across something they weren't expecting.

After the sunshine came rain. Thorin cursed quietly as rainwater ran into his eyes and down the bridge of his nose. He should have known their luck with the weather had been too good to last. The dirt road began turning to to mud beneath the pony’s hooves, and he’d made the call to turn aside into the woodlands, hoping the tree canopy would provide at least a little shelter.

Dimly, he heard Dori calling to Gandalf, asking him to do something about the deluge. Thorin shook his head, watching rainwater spatter left and right. He knew the wizard did not willingly perform such feats. Now that he came to think of it, seldom had he seen Gandalf perform any large, impressive magicks; save for what was required for the lighting of a pipe, or for blowing remarkable smoke rings. To anybody not already aware of his reputation, the wandering wizard appeared a mostly harmless old fellow, armed with nothing more deadly than a handful of tricks. But Thorin knew otherwise. The staff that he carried was far more than an old man’s walking stick; of that much, he was certain.

They trudged onwards, a mostly silent and soggy group, weaving their way through the forest. At least the dense network of branches above shielded them from the worst of the downpour, and the thick carpet of fern and brush underfoot prevented the forest floor from churning into mud. It was far more pleasant than the open road; still, Thorin felt uneasy. He disliked the constant patter of rain among the trees, a sound that made it far harder to listen out for approaching danger. Too many times, he had led raids on orc camps under the cover of a summer downpour. It was a sound that, to Thorin, did not signify safety.

But despite his fears, the company was able to progress without any hindrances. It wasn’t long before the downpour eased, and became no more than a light drizzle. But the grey skies persisted, filled with low dark clouds, heavy with the promise of more rain. Thorin, in a dilemma, trotted up to Gandalf and pulled the grey wizard aside.

‘I like not the look of that sky,’ he said in an undertone. ‘I’d hate the be caught out in the open in yet another deluge, such as the one just passed.’

‘I quite agree.’ Gandalf blew water from the brim of his hat, frowning at the veil of droplets still clinging to his beard. ‘What did you have in mind?’

Thorin shook his head. ‘As I recall, this is not a large forest. In theory, we could be past Bree by nightfall. There is some scrub-land beyond the village, beside the East-West road, where we could make camp.’

‘You are right.’ Gandalf was eyeing him shrewdly. ‘So, what troubles you about that?’

‘The land is very open. There will be no shelter if it rains. It will likely mean a miserable night for all of us, with little to no sleep.’ He shifted uncomfortably on his pony, pushing his wet hair out of his eyes. ‘Plus, we will need to post extra guards, in case of… trouble. However, if we were to halt close to the edge of the wood, and make an early camp, we’d still have some protection.’

‘And sacrifice a couple of hours of progress for a dry night’s rest.’ Gandalf nodded approvingly. ‘I see. Well, it appears to me that your choice is already made, Thorin. To my mind, the latter option is certainly the more appealing.’ The grey wizard squinted upwards, eyeing the lowering clouds with clear distrust. ‘There’s more rain to come yet, or I’m a lizard,’ he muttered. ‘You’re quite right: I don’t like the look of that sky either.’

‘Then it is settled.’ Thorin nodded decisively. ‘We shall continue on until…’ he paused, instantly alert, as a familiar sound reached his ears. Something large was crashing through the bushes nearby; and whatever it was, it was approaching fast. From the look on Gandalf’s face, Thorin knew he’d heard it too.

‘Something’s coming.’ He pulled out his sword and leapt from his pony, noticing that almost all of his company followed suit. ‘Stand ready!’

A moment later, he was astonished to see a large grey horse come galloping through the trees towards them. Its ears were flattened, and its eyes rolling in terror as it veered close to the dwarves then shied away, dragging its jingling harness.

‘What the…’ Dwalin growled, hefting his twin axes. ‘Thorin, there’s a commotion going on up yonder. Sounds like a fight!’

‘I hear it.’ Thorin nodded. ‘Ori, Dori, stay behind with Master Baggins to guard the ponies. The rest of you, follow me!’

He moved swiftly, trying to keep his steps silent. As they drew closer to the source of the commotion, Thorin realised with a chill that he recognised the sounds: orcs were screeching and wargs were snarling up ahead. He tightened his grip on his sword and broke into a run.

Emerging into a clearing, the dwarves came across a slaughter. Several bodies lay on the ground – elves, he realised belatedly, elves with long pale hair and sightless eyes, who had died from many cruel wounds. Up ahead were the orcs themselves: all mounted warg-riders, circling an enormous white horse, who was somehow still holding its ground; neighing wildly and kicking out at the slavering predators, stamping its iron-shod hooves.

Thorin didn’t think twice. He hefted his sword and broke into a run, bellowing his war cry. Dwalin was at his side, the rest of the Company at his back. Taken by surprise, the warg-riders were distracted from their torment of the creature, as they turned their attention to the dwarves. With a bellow, the lead orc kicked his mount into motion, sending it bounding straight towards Thorin. The dwarf king did not hesitate. He dropped to one side to avoid the beast’s slavering jaws, slashing the keen edge of his blade across its throat and severing its jugular. The monster fell, throwing its rider; and Thorin was upon him in an instant, dispatching the screeching orc with a simple thrust. To his left he saw Dwalin kill another warg with one swing of an axe, while up ahead Bifur had taken down another of the filthy creatures with his trusty boar spear, while Bombur and Bofur made short work of the rider.

It wasn’t long before the forest floor was stained black with orc blood. The fight was brief, over almost before it had begun. Thorin wiped his sword on the grass before sheathing it and glancing around. As far as he’d seen, no orcs or wargs had escaped them; but something didn’t add up.

‘There’s only half a dozen corpses here,’ he murmured to Balin, as his old friend came to stand beside him. ‘Barely enough for a scouting party, let alone a full pack.’

‘You’re right. Which means we’ve likely not seen the last of them,’ nodded Balin, his brow creased in worry. ‘Thorin, if there’s an orc-pack roaming nearby…’

‘Then we need to move. Come, we should return to the ponies.’ He hesitated. His eye had been caught by the bodies on the ground: not the orcs, but the fair folk they had ambushed. The small party of elves, who had been unfortunate enough to fall prey to the orcs’ trap. None of them appeared dressed for battle; and why should they be, Thorin thought to himself. They’d been doing nothing more dangerous than riding through a small forest, close to the main East-West road; right beside a town of Men for Mahal’s sake! Thorin felt a chill of fear rise to grip him by the throat. He’d expected orc and goblin encounters further east, once they’d passed the Misty Mountains perhaps; but here, in the gentle west…?

He felt, rather than saw, the presence of Fili beside him. ‘We should do something for the poor bastards,’ his nephew said quietly. ‘I know they were elves, Uncle, but… nobody deserves this.’

‘You are right.’ He swallowed hard. ‘Help me move the bodies. We’ll lay them out somewhere away from this scum. We cannot spare the time to bury them; but at least we may afford them some dignity in death. At least, let us not leave them to lie with the orcs.’ He scowled. ‘It isn’t much. But still more than they would do for us.’

Fili nodded agreement, beckoning the others. It wasn’t before they had gathered almost all the bodies together, and laid them on a soft spot of mossy sward a little way off the path. He and Kili went to recover the last body: a small, slumped figure, tiny in appearance beside the pale horse, who was still hovering protectively over its fallen rider.

‘Hey there, hey now big fella, calm down, it’s okay, okay…’ Kili raised his hands, trying to calm the horse. ‘Whoa, there!’ he cried, falling back as it reared. Close to, Thorin could see that the beast’s magnificent white coat was streaked with blood from numerous shallow cuts along its flanks.

‘Poor creature,’ he muttered. ‘They were tormenting it for sport.’

‘It won’t – Uncle, it won’t let me get close.’ Kili huffed a breath of frustration. The horse was clearly still spooked, its dark eyes rolling, stamping its great hooves and snorting exhausted defiance. But even as scared and hurt as it was, it would not abandon its rider.

‘Let me try.’ Thorin stepped closer, his hands held upwards, ready to grab the dangling reigns if the chance came. The creature stamped and shook its great head, whinnying anxiously, before leaning down to stare intently at Thorin as he edged nearer.

_I won’t hurt you,_ he thought, staring the horse directly in the eye, as though willing it to understand. _I won’t hurt you; I won’t hurt whoever you’re guarding. I just want to help._

____

____

For one long, anxious moment, Thorin was certain they’d have to abandon the attempt, and leave the final body where it lay. They had wasted too much time already. But then, after several seconds of intense scrutiny, the horse stepped away. It moved to one side and dropped its great head, as though exhausted by its exertions, whinnying softly before turning to nuzzle its rider urgently. Thorin shuffled closer, slowly and with caution; but the great white beast seemed to no longer see him as a threat. Instead, it kept desperately trying to rouse its fallen rider. Thorin’s heart clenched for a moment in sympathy.

‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered, more to the horse than anyone else, stooping over the final figure. There was a broken arrow-shaft lodged in the rider’s back, and when he turned the body over, he realised that this, unlike the others, was a female. Her face was pale, and her long yellow hair hung loose, dark with drying blood. _Such a pity,_ he thought. _Yet more senseless deaths. When will the bloodshed end?_

‘This is the last of them.’ The she-elf weighed nearly nothing in his arms as he walked to the spot that Balin had chosen, where her brothers-in-arms already lay: a soft patch of ground in the shade of a vast, spreading tree, carpeted with green moss and many-fingered ferns. Here and there, small clumps of white, bell-shaped flowers had sprung up beneath the great tree’s shade. _A fitting resting place,_ he thought. _This is a peaceful spot, to lie undisturbed._

‘A damned shame.’ Gloin leaned on his double-headed war axe, shaking his red-bearded head in what appeared to be genuine sorrow. ‘I know they’re only elves, the poor sods; but by Mahal, I wish we’d the time to bury them.’

‘Aye, no-one should be left to lie like this,’ nodded Oin. ‘To be preyed upon by wolves and all manner of carrion creatures once the sun sets! It boils m’blood to think of it.’ He stepped closer to the bodies, frowning. ‘Here, Thorin, are you sure they’re all dead?’

‘What?’ Thorin scowled, snapping out of his thoughts as the cranky old healer bent down to inspect one of the bodies further.

‘This one here’s still breathing. She’s alive!’ Oin beckoned him urgently. ‘Durin’s beard, it’s a good thing you’re a king, not a healer; as blind as a bat, you are sometimes. What should we do with her?’

‘Do?’ Thorin gaped for a moment in astonishment before urgency cut through his thoughts. ‘We’ll bring her back to the ponies. Durin’s beard, we need to find a place to make camp, quickly. Oin, if you can save even one of them…?’

‘Aye, the rest are all stone dead, right enough,’ muttered Oin, peering into the faces of the other elves. ‘But this one only took an arrow, and the shaft hasn’t gone right through. If it isn’t poisoned, she might yet live.’

‘Then we need to get moving, and quickly. Can you carry her?’

‘Of course, she weighs no more than diamond dust,’ nodded the healer. ‘I’ve carried wineskins heavier than this lass.’

‘Then let’s go. Somebody bring her horse too.’ With one lingering glance at the rest of the bodies, Thorin turned away, leading them back to the ponies. It wasn’t long before they reached the path, and an impatient Dori, Ori, and Bilbo; and an extremely irritable Gandalf.

‘Thorin Oakenshield, if you’re going to go running off into the blue at every strange sound we hear along the path, this is going to be a very long journey indeed…’ the wizard’s diatribe was cut short when he noticed the limp body in Oin’s arms. His expression changed to one of urgency. ‘What happened? Is everyone alright?’

‘Warg-riders,’ snapped Thorin, tight-lipped. ‘No more than half a dozen. They ambushed an elven convoy a little way into the trees. There was only one survivor. We took care of the orcs, but there may be others in the area. We must move on, and find a safe place to camp quickly.’

The wizard nodded, for once seeming content not to ask any more questions. ‘I know of a place somewhere off the beaten path. It’ll take us a little out of our way, but it is safe and well hidden.’

‘Take us there.’ Thorin mounted up, urging his pony into a hasty trot, following the path the wizard picked between the trees. They were veering north-east, he realised. It wasn’t long before the lush, verdant forest began to give way to low, scrubby gorse bushes and thinner, spindly trees that leaned over shallow pools of brackish water.

‘Where are you leading us?’ Thorin snapped, coming to ride as close to the wizard as the narrow trail allowed. ‘The land is turning into a swamp!’

‘This is no swamp. We are on the outskirts of what the Breelanders call the Midgewater Marshes,’ replied Gandalf. ‘There is a ranger camp not far up ahead. We will be safe there.’

Thorin frowned. ‘I have no wish to meet with outsiders.’

‘Don’t worry, the camp will be empty. The Dúnedain roam further north this time of year. We won’t be disturbed.’ Gandalf frowned up at the sky. Dusk was beginning to settle over the land, painting the thinning trees in shades of pink and dusty lilac. The deep clouds seemed to have dispersed, for the time being, leaving the sky streaked with threads of pale grey.

‘I just hope there’s no rain later,’ grumbled Thorin. ‘Oin will need a fire for his work.’

‘I am well aware of that.’ Gandalf shook his head worriedly. ‘I don’t like this. Orcs roaming so close to the villages of men, attacking people practically on the road? Something is not right.’ The wizard’s brow was deeply furrowed, concern carving deep lines into his weathered features. ‘I must speak to the she-elf you found once she recovers, and discover what happened. This bodes ill for us, Thorin. Our journey may prove more difficult than either of us feared. Doubtless this won’t be the last we’ll see of trouble.’

‘I agree.’ Thorin shrugged. ‘I had hoped to be east of the Misty Mountains before these kinds of difficulties found us. I fear it will only get worse. But we must go on.’

‘Doubtless.’ The grey wizard nodded. ‘We shall soon discover what the future has in store for us. Hopefully, for now, a simple dry night’s rest. But as for the following morning…? We shall have to wait and see.’ He turned in the saddle and gave Thorin a brief wink, before pointing towards a place where several short, scrubby trees converged. ‘Don’t worry, we’re almost there. The camp lies beneath those trees, up ahead.’

‘Thank Mahal,’ sighed Thorin. He glanced behind him, to where Oin was keeping an eye on the injured she-elf, somehow managing to keep her balanced on his pony. At the rear of the column, Dori was leading the now-docile white horse. ‘Let’s just hope we’re not too late.’

*


	5. Making Camp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the dwarves (plus guests) set up camp in the relative safety of the Midgewater Marshes.

Night fell as softly as a sigh. Beneath the boughs of a handful of crooked trees, the dwarves made camp. Gandalf had been right: the ranger base was a perfect spot, dry and relatively sheltered from the chill breezes that skirled across the marshy flats by a thick bank of bullrushes. An ancient, hoary old willow provided the majority of the cover, its drooping boughs serving to shield the dwarven company from any unfriendly eyes.

Thorin had been surprised but pleased to find the camp empty, except for a pair of startled herons; and even more pleased to discover a good store of firewood, already chopped, and stacked neatly in the hollow part of one of the great tree’s trunks. Gandalf had warned them against using too much, as the fuel was intended as an emergency supply for the rangers who kept these western lands safe; but really, even if they’d lit a dozen watchfires, Thorin doubted they’d have been able to use it all up.

Still, despite the plentiful fuel, Thorin had ordered that they keep the fire small, and eat from their own supplies. The encounter with the warg-riders, brief though it had been, had troubled the dwarf king deeply; and Gandalf too, it would appear. The grey wizard had drawn him aside while the rest of the Company were occupied with setting up camp, his brow furrowed in concern.

‘Who did you tell about your quest, other than your own kin?’ he had asked, quietly but urgently.

‘No-one,’ Thorin replied. ‘Nobody outside the dwarven lands knows of our journey; aside from you, and Master Baggins over there.’

Gandalf shook his head impatiently. ‘You are certain of this? You would swear it?’

‘Yes,’ snapped Thorin, his patience thinning. ‘Why? Do you not trust my word in this?’

‘Of course I do.’ The grey wizard sighed, looking suddenly exhausted. ‘I simply cannot account for the presence of warg-scouts this far west. I know the lands here are a little wild, and can be somewhat dangerous… but this, this I had not bargained for. I am concerned, Thorin, that some malign forces are at work here: and that you are being hunted. There are still those willing to pay a good price for your head.’

Thorin inhaled deeply, not replying straight away. ‘That is my concern as well,’ he muttered, lowering his voice to little more than a gruff rumble. ‘But I fail to see how… I swear to you, I have spoken to nobody about this quest. No-one outside of our own kin knows. My sister, Dís… Gloin’s wife… a few council Elders, emissaries from the Iron Hills, my cousin Dáin… those are the only folk I can think of who know the true purpose of our journey East.’

Gandalf nodded thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps it was sheer bad luck, then. Or perhaps the orc pack was roaming in search of something else in these lands.’ He glanced shrewdly at Thorin. ‘There are other forces at work in this world besides the will of evil. Let us hope that it wasn’t your quest that drew them here; and that we may continue our journey unnoticed.’

‘We can but hope.’ Thorin glanced over to where Oin and Gloin had kindled a small fire beneath the boughs of the old willow, and were busy fussing over their patient. ‘When the she-elf recovers, perhaps she will furnish us with more information.’

‘Indeed. Certainly, it is not unheard of, for parties of elves to travel this land… but still, that in itself is unusual too.’ The wizard nodded thoughtfully. ‘After all, there are very few places that the elves still dwell in Middle Earth; and as such, they seldom leave their sanctuaries.’

Thorin snorted derisively. ‘How fortunate for them, to still have their own safe lands, where they can spend their days in peace and idle comfort.’

Gandalf sighed. ‘They are not your enemies, Thorin,’ he replied sternly. ‘And envying their homes will only serve to make you bitter and resentful. The fair folk have had their share of troubles in Middle Earth: troubles you know nothing about. The peace that you see now was hard-won. If I were you, I would not be so quick to judge an entire race, based on the actions of one foolish king.’

‘Do not lecture me, Gandalf,’ retorted Thorin. ‘I have no patience for it. Besides, we did more today for the elves we found than they’ve ever done for me, or my kin. At least we tried to treat their fallen with dignity, honour, and respect.’ He glared up at Gandalf, noticing that the wizard’s attention was being drawn to something over his shoulder. He turned to see Oin approaching them, wearing a determined expression.

‘She’ll live,’ the deaf old healer stated, without preamble. ‘I’ve worked that arrowhead out, and to the best of my knowledge, the point was clean of any poison, or toxin. Provided she has care, I expect she’ll make a full recovery, in time.’

‘That is excellent news.’ Gandalf nodded approvingly, his expression lightening considerably. ‘Well done, old fellow. You really are a remarkable talent.’ He patted Oin companionably on the shoulder, while the deaf old healer looked thoroughly nonplussed at the compliment. ‘Is she awake?’ he added.

‘I’m afraid not. As best as I can tell, she took a tumble when that arrow struck her. She’s got a right big lump on her head, the size of a duck egg. She’ll be spark out for some time, I’ll wager. Come and see.’

They followed Oin across the makeshift camp. Thorin was glad to enter the small circle of warmth cast by the campfire, despite the temperate summer evening. The night was beginning to draw in, and little could be seen across the marshlands, save for the crooked outlines of a handful of scrubby trees, and the faint glimmer of fireflies dancing across black pools of water. At any other time, it would have been a beautiful, if lonely sight. But to Thorin’s eyes, every bush or shrub could hide a concealed enemy; which is why, as soon as they made camp, he’d posted Fili and Kili on guard duty, as they were the youngest and had the sharpest eyes.

‘There. Snug as a bug in a rug,’ commented Oin, looking pleased with his work. Thorin nodded his approval. The female elf had been placed on a spare bedroll, close enough to the campfire to benefit from the extra warmth. A blanket had been thrown over her, and she appeared to be sleeping peacefully. To one side lay a heap of bloodstained rags, Oin’s roll of medical tools, and a bowl of bloody water containing a broken-off orcish arrowhead. He turned to Gandalf, to make some comment about their fair treatment of this elf, only to falter at the wizard’s expression. Gandalf’s face held a look of shock, and he stooped quickly towards the fallen woman, muttering in an incomprehensible language.

‘Gandalf?’ asked Thorin quietly. Cold dread settled in the pit of his stomach. ‘What’s wrong?’

Gandalf shook his head. His face was creased as though in pain. ‘I know her,’ he murmured. ‘This… this is the child of a very, very dear friend of mine. Thank the Valar that she yet lives; and that your people had the skill to save her. To bring Círdan news of her death would have been…’ the wizard trailed off, breathing deeply, seemingly to try and recover from the shock he had just received. ‘What in the Valar’s name she is doing here, out in the wilds all alone, I have no idea,’ he added. He frowned worriedly, absent-mindedly reaching out to tuck the blanket a little more snugly around the elf’s narrow shoulders.

Under any other circumstances, Thorin would have been amused by this grandfatherly gesture from the old man. But the worry that clouded Gandalf’s face made him shift uncomfortably. ‘She is recovering?’ he all but barked at Oin, who seemed equally put out by Gandalf’s reaction.

‘Aye, by my reckoning she’ll be fine,’ the deaf old healer replied loudly, glancing warily between Thorin and the wizard. ‘As I said, she’s just taken a wee bump to the back of the head. She’ll wake soon enough. I’ve also cleaned out the arrow wound, and bandaged it up tight. The point didn’t pierce any innards, so far as I can tell, so it should heal nicely.’

‘Thank you.’ Gandalf shook his head slowly, and heaved a deep, heavy sigh. ‘Well now, this does complicate matters. Let me know when she wakes. I have questions that need answering.’

With that, he walked away. Thorin caught the sound of the wizard still muttering to himself as he departed, and turned to see Oin and Gloin watching with equally bemused expressions on their faces.

‘Well now, that’s something you don’t see every day.’ Gloin huffed into his beard. ‘I suppose we’ll be camped here awhile, until yon lassie can travel?’

Thorin shrugged. ‘We shall see what the dawn brings.’ He glanced around. ‘At least we should be safe from prying eyes here. Still, I don’t want anyone to go wandering off. I don’t trust these marshlands. Any path could lead into a bog. We’ll stay put until sunrise, at the very least. I must consult with Balin and the wizard about our next steps.’ He clapped Oin on the shoulder, nodding his thanks to the old healer. ‘Rest now, old friend. You’ve worked hard, and done well.’

He strode over to where Balin, Bilbo, Bofur, Nori and Ori were sitting, settling himself down beside them. Balin handed him a small farl of honey-bread with a wry glance. ‘Seems like something’s upset our wizard.’

‘Indeed.’ Thorin scowled. ‘Our quest has just become more… complicated.’

‘Is that an elf?’ Bilbo piped up, his voice sounding small and thin amid the vastness of the marsh flats. ‘I… It’s just I’ve never met one before,’ he added, as five dwarves turned to stare at him. ‘But then again, I’d never met dwarves either, until you lot showed up on my porch.’

Balin chuckled quietly. ‘Aye lad, that’s an elf. A young lass, by all appearances; but you can never tell from looking. Elves don’t age the same as you or I. She could be a thousand years old and never look a day older than forty.’

‘Lucky her,’ chuckled Bofur. ‘Will you look at the lines and wrinkles I’ve been getting lately? It’s enough to make a dwarf sick. I’m telling you, it’s the worry that’s doing it; I’ll be as wizened as a year-old apple by the end of this trip!’ He nudged Bilbo lightly, who shook his head with a smile.

‘I just hope she’s ok,’ the hobbit said. ‘She looked, um… pretty bad, when Oin brought her in.’

Bofur grinned. ‘Don’t fret, Bilbo. That dwarf’s a wizard with all sorts of poultices and potions. Oin-ments, he calls some of them. She’ll be fresh as a daisy in days.’

Thorin cleared his throat. ‘Be that as it may, I want a watch put on her. The wizard wants to know as soon as she wakes. We’ll take turns, the same as with guard duty. I want two on guard at the camp perimeter at all times, and one keeping an eye on the elf. We should be safe here; but I will take no chances. Especially now we have wounded.’

Ori straightened up, tugging at his mittens and doing his best to look bright and alert. ‘I’ll take the first watch. I’m not the least bit tired!’

‘Very well.’ Thorin tried to hide a smile at the youngster’s enthusiasm, noticing the slim, leather-bound journal he held, tucked tightly under one arm. Doubtless, the young dwarf was eager to sit and chronical this stage of their journey; and would need the fire’s light in order to do so. He watched Ori stride determinedly off, before nodding to the others. ‘Get some rest while you can. We don’t know how long we’ll be safe here. If there are orcs patrolling the lowlands, we might face some sleepless nights once we leave these marshes.’


	6. My Name is Thorin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the she-elf wakes up.

It was late. Or, more accurately, it was early. Midnight had passed by the time Thorin was woken for his share of the night’s watch. He nodded to Dori and Nori, who were on guard duty, before settling himself beside the campfire, adding a little more dry wood to the embers. It was a clear, cool night, and utterly silent save for the occasional call of a night bird and the soft sound of wind among the rushes.

To Thorin, it was strangely peaceful. Odd, perhaps, to find tranquillity in such a strange, desolate place, surrounded on all sides by treacherous pathways and deceptively shallow pools that could swallow them without trace; ponies, baggage, and all. They’d been forced to leave their mounts on a little grassy hillock just off the main camp, under Gandalf’s assurances that it was what the rangers did too – and sure enough, when they arrived, he saw that the small mound was lush with green grass, and several hitching posts had been driven into the soil.

He allowed his thoughts to wander, gazing up at the vast, dark expanse of the night sky. Here and there, the bright points of stars glimmered, reminding him of the jewels in his grandfather’s treasury. Bright diamonds, fire opals, white sapphires and rare pearls; he imagined them placed on a cloth of finest, blackest velvet, to twinkle in the light beside a round, pale moonstone. That was the closest thing to the night sky inside Erebor. After all, the Lonely Mountain had been built to be a fortress, and there were very few places that opened to the outside air. To step out onto the battlements, and look up at the stars in wonderment: that had been a privilege not afforded to many. His rank as crown prince had given him that much, at least, which brought him joy.

And now, he was King. But a king without a kingdom to call his own; a king with a myriad of worries and problems and fears weighing down his broad, kingly shoulders. For a rare moment, in the silence of the night, it was a relief to simply… relax. To gaze up at a sky full of stars and wonder at the majesty and beauty of it all, instead of being distracted by the problems of others, or thoughts of the road ahead. For now, they were stuck here, until the she-elf recovered enough to speak with Gandalf; and from what Thorin could tell, what she had to say would decide their next move. Usually, Thorin hated allowing others to dictate his actions; but this time, it was something of a relief to know that any decision-making was, for now, out of his hands.

His thoughts wandered back towards the strange elf. Small she still seemed, laid out by the glowing fire, under a spare dwarven blanket that was really far too short to fully cover her from top to toe. The old willow tree seemed to lean over them, its leaves whispering softly in the wind, its hanging boughs dipped as though to shield and protect. He wondered at Gandalf’s surprise at finding her here. Surely, it was not that unusual for elves to travel between their own lands? The dwarves had done it all the time, back in the days before…

Before the dragon came. An ancient and familiar ache clenched in his chest. Memories of the fall of Erebor assailed him once again, flashes of fire and the dreadful black smoke that had felt like hands at his throat, choking him. The hope that had bloomed in him all too briefly at the sight of Thranduil’s approaching regiments; only to be dashed like water on rock the moment the sylvan king took one look at the horror below, and turned his back.

The thought still made Thorin’s blood boil, bright and hot with anger. That sly, silvery woodland sprite, with his robes and his crown and his cold, aloof arrogance… was little more than a coward. He had witnessed the tragedy that had befallen Durin’s sons, and had been too frightened to lead his people into battle, lest they met the same fate. Thorin gritted his teeth, trying to calm his fragmenting nerves. He remembered Gandalf’s words: _do not be so quick to judge a whole race by the actions of one foolish king._ But when such a betrayal was burned into his heart, his very soul… when everything inside him cried out for vengeance… then what else could he do?

He glanced back at the sleeping elf. She looked much the same as the wood elves he’d once known; pale and smooth-skinned, with long yellow hair that glinted like gold in the light of the dying fire. She looked young; but then, didn’t they all?

As though prompted by this attention, his wandering eye caught movement: a change in the pattern of her breathing, a slow flutter of her eyelids. The elf was finally waking up. Thorin hesitated, uncertain of what to do. Should he leave? Would she be frightened, to wake up and see a dwarf beside her, a stranger? Should he immediately go and wake Gandalf, or give her a moment to recover first? Paralyzed by indecision, Thorin did nothing but watch as the strange elf’s eyes blinked open.

*

A crackling campfire. The sound of wind among the leaves. The low cry of a tawny owl, hunting some little distance away. These were the sounds that greeted Mironiél as she awoke, slowly seeping into the elf’s returning consciousness. Even with her eyes closed, she could feel… water, deep and dark and cool, somewhere close. But then, that was normal, wasn’t it? Except…

Except she’d left the sea far behind. It had been days since she and her companions had ridden from the harbour that lay beyond the white towers; days since she’d left her home and everything she knew, and taken her first real steps into the wide world. So why could she still sense water, close by?

Her eyes flickered open, as memory assailed her. They had been riding, and then – a violent attack, orcs and wolves springing out of nowhere – a great howling and screaming – and then… pain, followed by a sudden and frightening darkness. She gasped, sitting bolt upright; and gasped again, for the movement brought a wave of agony with it, cascading over her left shoulder. A low groan escaped her lips and she winced. What in the Valar’s name had happened?

‘Be still. You are safe.’

A low voice startled her, snapping her eyes wide open. There, sitting on the other side of the small campfire, staring at her, was… a man? Certainly not another elf – his dark beard and weathered features told her that. But no: even as she locked eyes with the newcomer, she noticed his braided hair, his heavy boots, the intricate patterning on his clothing; and even when seated, she could tell he was a being of a different stature to her. A dwarf, then?

‘You are safe,’ he said again. His eyes were deep-sea blue and piercing, glaring out from the shadow of a long mane of raven-dark hair. A warm-looking cloak lined with dense grey fur was draped over his shoulders, giving him a kingly appearance; but even as she looked closer, she could see that it was a coat, not a cloak, and it was well-worn and even ragged in parts, cleverly mended along one seam. Not a king, then, or a lord. A fellow traveller, perhaps.

‘Thank you.’ She swallowed awkwardly, her throat dry. Her voice came out raspier than she expected. ‘What happened? Where am I?’

Her new companion appeared to consider her for a moment. ‘What do you remember?’

She shook her head, and winced. A throbbing pain grew at the base of her skull. ‘We were… riding through the forest,’ she replied. ‘Close to the East-West road, before we were attacked…’ she trailed off, glancing warily about her. As far as her keen eyes could see was nothing but flat, open marshland, marked here and there by clusters of tangled trees and dense, scrubby bushes. ‘Where are we?’

The dwarf shook his head. ‘No longer there. We found you unconscious, and had to move you some place safe. We believed that more orcs might be lurking in the woods.’

‘Then for that, I am grateful.’ She inclined her head towards him in thanks, venturing a small smile. ‘I owe you my thanks, friend. Tell me, was I the only one injured? Where are my travelling companions? Are they here too?’

The dwarf opened his mouth as though to speak, hesitated, and closed it again. A deep frown furrowed his brow, and he glanced away as though unwilling to answer. A flash of pain seemed to pass briefly over his face, sending a wave of foreboding over her.

‘Your companions… didn’t make it,’ he said eventually, slowly and with deliberation, as though he was choosing each word with care. ‘They were all dead before we found you.’

Each word hit the elf like a stone in the pit of her stomach. She felt suddenly cold, as though a great hand had reached down and snatched all warmth from her soul. _Dead, they are all dead_ – the words echoed in the chamber of her mind, over and over. _They are dead – because of me._ Rough, sudden sobs shook her narrow frame, leaving her gasping for breath as tears sprang from her eyes. She clapped a hand over her mouth to try and stifle the sounds, squeezing her eyes tightly closed as though in defiance of this horrible revelation. _This is my fault,_ she thought, as an ugly, uncomfortable terror wrapped its hands around her. _I cannot fix this. What happens now?_

*

‘I am sorry.’ Thorin found himself speaking almost against his will, a part of him still not ready to pity an elf, of all creatures. But the larger part of him ached in sympathy, knowing all too well the pain of losing loved ones, and being forced to bear the burden of their loss. He bit his lip, unsure of what to do.

‘We tried,’ he found himself telling her. ‘We tried to save them. But we arrived too late, there was nothing…’ his voice trailed off as she clutched at the narrow blanket, trying to pull it more closely around herself. Another sob wracked her shoulders, and Thorin felt a surge of pity tug at his own heart. In that moment, she was not an elf, not an enemy: simply a woman in grief. He was moved to speech by the sight of her.

‘There is this much,’ he rumbled, leaning forward earnestly and trying to catch her eye. ‘I do not know if it will ease your burden, but know this: your companion’s deaths did not go unavenged. We fought and killed the orcs that slaughtered them. None left that forest alive.’

Her eyes opened at that, wide and glassy with unshed tears. He saw her gaze drift towards the haft of his sword, as though noticing it for the first time. ‘Then you did what I could not,’ she said, her voice hoarse. ‘It would appear I owe you a great debt of gratitude, friend dwarf. For saving my life, and for honouring my fallen friends.’ Her hand crept to her wounded shoulder, her face creasing in pain once more. ‘I am no soldier,’ she added. ‘As I’m sure you can tell. We are a peaceful folk… I’ve never lifted a blade to another being in my life. The skills of a warrior were those I admired, but never thought I would need.’ She scowled, wiping away her tears with the back of one hand. ‘It appears I was mistaken.’

Thorin shook his head. He had been raised a warrior as well as a prince, back in Erebor; learning to fight with toy swords and wooden axes since he was a tiny dwarfling. ‘It is a worthy skill for a traveller to know,’ he told her, trying to keep the reproach out of his voice. ‘Orcs are adept at ambushing an unwary convoy. It has happened to my people before too.’ _How nice it must be,_ his inner thought whispered, _to be raised in a land so content, so peaceful, that she has never needed to learn to fight, to defend her own… ___

She nodded, slowly and sadly. ‘You are right. It is my fault. My mistake. I thought the western lands were safe, and I was wrong. I have paid for it with four lives… lives I hold very dear.’ Fresh tears spilled from her eyes once more, glimmering faintly in the firelight; but rather than collapsing, her face seemed to set, stern and angry, her lips compressing into a thin line and her brows drawing together into a frown. Thorin felt a slight sting of remorse at her words. He had not meant to worsen her guilt.

‘Nobody is blaming you,’ he told her. ‘You could not have known what would happen.’

At that, she turned to fully look at him, eye to eye across the firelight. A cold wind whispered across the marshes, ruffling her hair and making the willow boughs tremble and whisper all around them. ‘You do not know that,’ she said quietly. The fire flickered. ‘Friend dwarf, you are kind, but… these deaths are on my head, and mine alone. I shall bear the burden of their loss until my dying day.’

Thorin swallowed hard. There was a strange weight to her words, a heaviness that seemed to crawl inside him and sit within his chest in a way he did not understand. There was something about this elf, he thought. Something very different to the ones he had known before.

‘We… laid your companions to rest,’ he said, after the silence stretched on for several seconds. ‘We placed them at the foot of a great tree, in a small clearing not far from here. I am only sorry that we could not spare the time to bury them.’

‘Thank you.’ The elf wiped her eyes again and cleared her throat, seeming determined to get a grip on herself. ‘Their bodies will rest easily in the shadow of the forest. That is enough. You have done us… done me a great service, whether you knew it or not. I haven’t words enough to thank you.’ She drew in a deep, shuddering breath. ‘I am in your debt. If there is any wish that you have, that is within my power to grant… then you have but to name it, and I will see it done.’

Thorin nodded slowly, surprised by her words. This stranger, this… small, wandering elf-maiden, who knew not how to fight, or defend herself, had spoken to him more politely than any other he had known. _Of course, we did just save her life,_ his inner thought added wryly. But no; there was more to it than that. This woman had none of the arrogance that always bled through his dealings with the wood elves; none of the thinly-veiled disdain or self-aggrandising tendencies that he’d come to associate with all sylvan folk. She was simply… grateful. It was odd, certainly, to speak civilly with an elf for a change; odd, but not unwelcome.

‘Anything I ask?’ he said, smiling wryly. ‘That seems a large promise to make, for one so little.’

‘Anything,’ she confirmed, with a nod.

‘Then you might start by telling me your name,’ he said, unable to prevent a small smile from creeping over his face at her bemused expression.

‘They call me Mironiél,’ she replied. A faint blush climbed into her cheeks as she spoke, rosy in the fire’s glow. ‘My apologies. It seems I’ve quite lost my manners, along with everything else.’ She smiled faintly, tilting her head to one side, her pale eyes watching him carefully. ‘Might I ask your name too, friend dwarf?’ she added. ‘I would like to know the name of my rescuer, so as to thank him properly.’

He hesitated. ‘I am… my name is Thorin,’ he answered. ‘Thorin, at your service.’

Just Thorin. Not Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, Heir to lost Erebor, and King Under the Mountain… but simply Thorin the dwarf. In the face of her frankness, he couldn’t bring himself to say it: to rattle off his list of titles, as though they had any real meaning, out here in the wilderness. It didn’t seem right, to boast of his lineage in the face of her grief. For once, it didn’t even seem… relevant. He watched her attempt to smile through the tear tracks that still lined her cheeks, repeating his name softly as though committing it to memory.

Thorin exhaled softly, feeling a wonderful lightness enter him. For so long now, this was all he had wanted… to be allowed to exist as ‘just Thorin’ the dwarf, if only for a little while. For even one person – just one! – to look at him, and see him simply as himself: _not_ as a king without a crown, or as the heir to a lost fortune… or as a failure.

‘Then I thank you, Thorin, for the great service you have done for me today; and I offer you in return my friendship, and any favour you might choose to name, that is within my power to give.’ She inclined her head as she spoke, placing one hand over her heart and speaking with an oddly formal intonation that sent a flurry of expectation quivering through Thorin’s chest. He felt like he had just received a great gift; but that the nature of it eluded him. _There is more to those words than she is telling,_ he thought, inclining his head in return. _I shall have to ask Gandalf about this tomorrow…_

Tomorrow. A great weight seemed to sink into him at the thought. Tomorrow all the Company would be awake; and he would no longer be able to hide behind her ignorance of his name. No longer would he be able to be ‘just Thorin’ with this stranger. No doubt Gandalf, who apparently already knew this woman, would introduce him with much pomp and ceremony, just as he’d done in Bag End.

The thought was enough to make gloom settle over him like a dank grey cloud. It wasn’t a cold night, but he shivered. Never in his years at Erebor had he spoken to someone unaware of his rank or his heritage; especially not an elf. Perhaps that was why she seemed different, he thought. She didn’t know who he was – and so didn’t bear any grudge or ill will towards him, or his people. As far as she was concerned, he was simply… Thorin the dwarf, her rescuer. He found that he liked that idea rather more than he should.

_I will wait,_ he thought to himself. There was no need to wake Gandalf right now. The old man could surely use some uninterrupted sleep; which meant that for the moment, he was free to sit and talk as though the destiny of an entire race wasn’t hinging upon his decisions; free to forget the burden of his ancestry for a while and just be… himself, for a change. Free in a way he never had been before, and likely never would be again.

*

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, friends! 
> 
> Love Mossie xx


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